


Jidōsha Jiko

by murakistags



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Car Accidents, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hannigram - Freeform, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-10 23:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5605480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murakistags/pseuds/murakistags
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is a slow pain, like the kindling of a youthful flame lapping at one's heels, begging for attention in a black and white scene set maddeningly in slow-motion. It seems as though time has stopped for both men. For one, it has ceased permanently."</p><p>Hannibal has gotten into a rather serious car accident, leaving Will to sift through his complicated feelings for the doctor whilst grappling with the acceptance of the delicate, intricate balance between life and death. [Pre-Savoureux (01x13)].</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jidōsha Jiko / 自動車事故  
> ("gee-doe-ooh-sha gee-ko")  
> Japanese, meaning: "car accident."

The man at the wheel of a car camouflaged into the penetrating darkness of night gives the steering wheel quite a suddenly tight hold. On his hands a stark white color grips his knuckles, fingertips digging into the leather of the wheel like teeth sinking effortlessly into flesh. That split second had wracked his entire system with a surge of adrenaline so potent that even his dilated pupils could do naught to avoid the impact. The vehicle jerked violently, but the gesture was immediately proven futile. In the swerve of headlights, the man could see that the car opposite him had also bolted in the same direction. Like a block of lead, a heel puts all possible pressure onto the brake pedal, and yet it does little to prevent the scene already set in motion by untuned strings of a horrid fate. An inhale sucked hot air into his lungs, filling the two porous mounds of flesh with enough fresh oxygen to tide him over for the next few moments of holding his breath in shock.

 

The noise comes next, grizzly as a bear driven to madness from hunger, as it rips through the frigid, silent night air. Like space rending itself from another dimension, the sparks of colliding steel alight the desolate road, twisting and tearing one vehicle grill into another, like a war of bayonets most brutal. Mangled, steel contorts under unspeakable force, bringing both solitary drivers in a rush towards one another. Each collide with the steering wheels puffed with the safety of an airbag, but only secondary to the shearing force of the crash. Bodies suspend in midair for the briefest of seconds, eyes wide with silent shock, arms outstretched before them, like plastic test dummies used to prove a point. It is a slow pain, like the kindling of a youthful flame lapping at one's heels, begging for attention in a black and white scene set maddeningly in slow-motion. Yet, this brief respite doesn't last, and when time seems to catch up to the event again, it seems to instead fast-forward. The resulting crash is hard, violent, and very painful, enough to deafen and blind, steal a breath, suck the life from a body.

 

It seems as though time has stopped for both men. 

 

For one, it has ceased permanently. 

 

For the other, he is unconscious, enveloped into darkness like the entire gruesome scene flecked with blood and torn flesh, broken limbs askew like the once-neatly crafted design of the automobiles. Within the mesh of steel he remains suspended in a chrysalis, a fortunate protection against the sear of flames which bursts forth from the wreckage just a meager metre from his shattered porcelain self.

 

If this man had been conscious to witness the resulting scene, he might've found it rather ironic…amusing, even. God really _does_  like to pass judgement, he would think. Another day he is spared to instead pass judgement of his own.

 

—•—•—•—

 

"Doctor Lecter has been in a very serious car accident."

 

The words seem so very surreal, as if they were never meant to exist together in the same sentence, as if the subject and predicate were simply an outright sin when placed beside one another. A car accident? A _serious_  car accident? A _very_  serious car accident? The ears of the Special Agent ring in the harsh silence following those ill-fitting words, the pause pregnant and indicative of just what a shock they are. Will Graham can only hear his breath in his own ears, the phone line oddly dead save for a single crackle of static as the man on the other end shifts his position just slightly.

 

"I-I– is he–…?"

 

A deep breath as unsteady as crinkly leaves in the fall can be heard within a wisp of staticky huff on the phone line. The man must collect himself before he can continue.

 

"…Is he _alright_? When? _Where_ …?"

 

A thousand questions flood forth suddenly from a throat fighting back the sickly constriction of nausea bubbling from his empty gut. The agent hadn't anticipated anything like this, not for even the faintest of seconds in a single passing moment, and so to hear such news now…it shakes him to the very core. Contempt for that doctor was always such a slippery, tricky concept for Graham to grasp, but now that the circumstances have changed and the prospect of suddenly _losing_  this man who'd been an absolute rock to him for so very long, well…he feels rather _ill_. Extremely ill, really, so that when that stern, crisply-coated, familiar voice of Jack Crawford speaks up on the other end of the phone, Graham is grateful that he needn't speak again. Instead, the scruffly man closes his lips tightly and swallows so forcefully that he doesn't even care if Jack can hear it. Ears still ring deafeningly, and Will has to squint into the empty space of his dim kitchen just to focus on the news being broadcast in his direction.

 

"It happened about an hour ago, not far from his office. It's…a pretty solid wreck, Will. I saw the scene and it's not pretty. He's alive but in emergency surgery now. …So I've been told. By the time I found out, medics had already gotten to him." 

 

A pause, one ended by an exhale that practically weeps exhaustion through the phone.

 

"I'm here at the hospital now."

 

Not only do those words from Jack bear the weight of being jarringly startled by this unfortunate sudden event, but they unmistakably hold an undertone of… _desire_. Not one of lust, not one zealous, but rather one repressed and tired, a desire meant to be the voice of one man seeking the comfort of another. In a more succinct sense, Jack Crawford knows all too well what he himself implies: Will should be at the hospital as well. One of this labyrinthine, waltzing trio of arbitrary "good" and "evil" has fallen at the behest of a god to whom he does not pray. The other two must support him, and they are all too well-aware of this. Will hesitates not about swiftly asking his question, sharp and past an uncomfortable tightening in his chest.

 

"Which hospital?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes:  
> Progress is somewhat slow but always steady with this work. It's the first somewhat-lengthy one I've tried my hand at in a very long time (and also my very first formal work in the Hannibal fandom aside from silly little ficlets here and there), so...that being said, please bear with me. I'll always try to edit and update with new chapters whenever I am able. Also on that note, I'm not entirely certain how long this entire work will even be. I guess that depends on the reception, and how long my muse for this work will hold out! Who knows, maybe it'll even turn into a series somewhere down the line.  
> Thanks for reading~
> 
> If you liked it, don't forget to leave kudos and comments. They inspire me and make me smile.
> 
> Please consider [buying me a coffee for a fic](https://ko-fi.com/murakistags)!


	2. Chapter 2

Half past twelve. 

 

Eyes the colour of ocean waves jostled by storm and wind briefly scan over the dial of his wristwatch, taking the precise time into his mind feverish with a fear he doesn't quite understand. Confirming that it is indeed half past twelve in the late night has left the man also repeating words beneath his breath, words which tickle his tongue with familiarity…and now turn decidedly sour.

 

"It's twelve-thirty A-M. I'm in Baltimore, Maryland, and my name is Will Graham."

 

Yet he feels not all present, still. Usually saying these words would be met with that curious gaze flecked with maroon, but this time those eyes which shielded Will from himself are now tightly closed. Closed, and the agent isn't very sure if they'll ever open again. The very thought coupled with the pungent scent of antiseptic sets his every frayed nerve on-edge as feet unsteadily glide into the hospital, drawing in a wisp of winter chill behind his back. Will is grateful for the odd warmth the sterile and impersonal walls bring in comparison to the frigid night outdoors, but a part of him would've preferred to assume the position of a human ice cube for a little while longer– the cool breeze had staved off his nausea, lapped at his face like his pet Winston's sloppy tongue offering a penance after a particularly long day. Hospitals were never very calming or reassuring to Will, but he realized very early-on that he was impartial to the walls promising healing and health. One learns very early in the works of both medicine and justice that for as many people saved from the grips of death daily, just that many more succumb. Suddenly, this time around, the hospital feels more like a deathbed waiting for its next patient rather than a place of comforting healing and warmth. 

 

The top of his nose and the tops of cheeks above scraggly brunette beard are tinged red from the winter chill still clinging to his body, and his sinuses suddenly feel as if they've been stuffed to the bone with cotton. His ears, too. Each step down the long halls, the ride up the elevator, the hustle and bustle and familiar noises around him…all of it seems muffled, each bit of his surroundings reminiscent of a creature from the deep reaching out with a cry for attention, only to be ignored again and again at its brutal appearance. Like a monster. Oddly reminiscent of Hannibal himself, no? Will is distinctly aware that _this_ time down fluorescent hospital halls comes without the click of hooves on polished white tiles, not a sound of that pesky stag following or beckoning him in. Liberating as that very short moment may feel, it is just as taxing and tiring, leaving Will Graham once more with that acrid, sour taste at the back of his mouth. How he despises it, like a weakness. Like that horrifying swipe of pleasure in his belly when gunshots once filled the air and his arms felt the recoil, nose smelt the ashy gunpowder from his own weapon. Truly terrifying, all of it. All of _this_.

 

"Jack."

 

Will's voice is hoarse from disuse, hazy from his own thoughts. The entire way of him driving up to Maryland had been in a silence as dead as the prey of midnight crows, nothing but the ambient noise of traffic and soft patters of light hail to soundtrack his building inner turmoil. Overwhelmed now by not only himself but the environment as he's forced to openly be… _sociable_ , has this special agent looking as horrid as he feels. Most like he's suffering from a hangover, clothes and hair unkempt, and glasses maladjusted on his nose. Like a haunted man.

 

"Just in time," Jack offers a hand for greeting, and is readily approached by the shorter male. That moment is oddly suspended, as if both are drawn together to speak of something truly grotesque, and yet neither of the two wishes to speak the first syllable of substance.

 

"Hannibal's in the room. Asleep after the surgery and stable but…not looking good. The doctor just left. Said that the list of injuries is a mile long. Broken bones, internal bleeding, cuts and bruises…you name it."

 

To speak so impersonally of the good doctor just beyond the closed, private hospital room door must somehow put Agent Crawford at ease, for he explains everything quite smoothly just then. If Will didn't know any better, he'd think it purely apathetic. But he does know better, and knows too well that when he looks into Jack's tired eyes he can so clearly see burden and a crippling exhaustion. It's emotion born from a sickening mash of the situation with his terminally ill spouse, and this one with a doctor whom he calls a friend. Unfortunate, unfair, and unsettling. To Jack Crawford, it feels so sorely as if a rug is being pulled out from under him. Instead of one rough tug like removing a persistently sticky bandaid from tender skin, it's being jerked gently, one little centimetre at a time, lulling him into a false sense of security as brief as a fresh breath and steadying of his footing…all before another jolt hits him hard and threatens to topple him anew. Upon broad shoulders and sallow dark skin weighs this stress, and though he may not say it aloud, the man is eternally grateful for the presence of Will then.

 

Agent Crawford takes no pleasure at all in seeing a gaze downcast and mortified because of words which he himself had spoken to an innocent man, and so to see Will's reaction only growing more troubled by the second leaves him suddenly unable to bear any more of this. But it had to be done– one cannot hide the inevitable from this unhappy reality. One cannot hide the consequences of a very real risk and chance game like this one. Hannibal is alive, stable, and resting. Who knows if that may still be so even ten, fifteen minutes from now? An hour, even? A day, or even a week…?

 

"What about the other car?"

 

Will didn't want to ask, doesn't want to _really_  understand the entire story, but he must. Empathy is a very potent emotion, and not one so easily ignored in his own case. 

 

"Well…local police have come to the decision that it was the other car which wrongfully hit Hannibal's. So it was their fault, whoever that man is. He didn't survive." A deep sigh punctuates his sentences. "…I'm actually leaving now. Going to head down to the local station and see if I can get some more information, then head home. It's late."

 

"I'll stay here," Will states with a surprising firmness that Jack had only witnessed once or twice from him. It's a stable decision. "…Who knows when he'll wake up. It's probably a good idea if one of us is here when he does."

 

Why Will feels a sudden pull towards this doctor, even he isn't truly certain. It'd been many therapy sessions, talking closely to one another…until he'd at least finally, even slightly, _consciously_  realized that they had grown together. Only Will could understand some of Hannibal's words, and some of Hannibal's words were solely meant for Will's ears. It is an oddly symbiotic relationship like that on the surface, but not without the vices from fallen angels lurking and prickling beneath the skin. _Perception is a tool that's pointed on both ends._

 

"You'll call me if anything changes," Jack states. Not a question, just a statement outright. As much as Will may lose himself in this tragedy, aside from the conscious recognition of both these agents, Jack still stands by the left hand of Hannibal Lecter, and is one-hundred percent cognizant that he is not obligated to do so. No, rather he wants to, just like Will. Though, certainly not to the same degree.

 

"I will," Special Agent Graham sighs, fidgeting with the hem of his olive-coloured jacket sleeves whilst averting his gaze anywhere but to that beady one before him. Some things never change. "Good night, Jack."

 

The silence is stiff.

 

"Good night, Will."

 

—•—•—•—

 

Will Graham is never one to toot his own horn, nor is he one for blatant displays of egoism, but he was certainly very confident that he had braced himself for the very worst when sucking in a deep breath of recycled hospital air, and pushing into the private hospital room. He found himself immediately to be very, woefully wrong. He'd overestimated both himself and the state of the unconscious doctor in recovery.

 

Doctor Hannibal Lecter lies perfectly supine with his head of tousled hair propped upon a single white pillow. And from head to toe, he looks so very foreign that Will feels the need to approach the bedside slowly, and observe with a special curiosity reserved only for the most stomach-churning of crime scenes. 

 

Hannibal's lids are shut, gentle wisps of thin, light lashes dusting the tops of sharp cheekbones, framed by the crinkle of age at the corners of eyes. Whenever he smiles, Will thinks, those wrinkles are so very prominent, yet they make him look all the wiser. The first visible damage can be seen a little lower there, a purple blotch of bruised alabaster marring a pale cheek. Had Hannibal always looked so pale? No, Will decides definitively to himself, no. Never this sickly. Never this… _fragile_.

 

Between the doctor's chapped, pallid lips is the emergence of a thick translucent tube, one which splits off outside of his throat, delivering a steady stream of oxygen, and likewise filtering out carbon dioxide. For now, this machinery breathes for him, sustains his body while he can recuperate efficiently enough. The tube is taped in place across his mouth, leaving strips out on either side of lower cheeks. Up to his neck now is covered in crisp white blankets, but Will can imagine the damage beneath them. For one, a plethora of tubes and wires emerge from one end of the blanket, undoubtedly attached to his skin, pressed inside his vasculature and connected to various machines, an intravenous drip, in various places to sustain him. But the scars, the bruises and cuts, the sickly pain clinging to him like a golden honey… Will Graham can only imagine what is packed beneath the heavy bandaging and casting, all of which makes the doctor look oddly bulky beneath such a thin cloth.

 

By then, Will's own face had taken on a shade exactly equal to that of his unconscious friend: ghostly and disturbing. This isn't a scene Will was ever supposed to see, no. Not like this. It feels wrong, every bit of it feels so very wrong. Yet when his eyes close, the _whoosh_ of a swinging pendulum can be heard and seen behind his lids, as bright as the neon lights of the big city. It's a calculating swing, one bringing the empath back to the scene of the accident.

 

As if a stag himself, tucked away into the sparse skeletons of trees stripped of their leaves in the winter frost, Will's ocean gaze can watch the entire scene play out like a movie. It's like a private film, him peeking into a moment not his own, and yet he lives within that universe for those brief minutes. Two cars, both dark and shaded in shadows of night, traveling in opposing directions on an otherwise silent and empty road. Gazing through one windshield shows that familiar stern face of Hannibal Lecter, his hawk-like gaze focused intently on the road ahead, posture impeccably straight as he drives the vehicle at a steady velocity. Distantly, from the stereo, plays the dulcet tones of an aria, smooth and inviting of a quiet evening retreat home to signal the end of one more work day in the week. 

 

However, looking through the other windshield gives Will a glimpse of a man quite the opposite persona of the calm doctor in that moment. This man looks sweaty, his head lolling and keening back and forth just as his hands jerk at the steering wheel, just as his chest with unstable breathing and coughs, lips with mindless slurs. Within the main cabin of the car, there is a pungent, strong smell of stale alcohol and cigarettes, the scents mingling to a nauseating stench as it unyieldingly seeps into the fabric seats and clothes of this man. Skin is slick and salty, and eyes are watery and unfocused, hazy, pupils dilated…every sign undoubtedly a clear sign of a man too intoxicated by drink.

 

The next scene happens very swiftly, so quick that if Will would've blinked, he'd have missed the entire crash, only to be left with echoes of the sound.

 

The drunken man swerves past an empty intersection and speeds past posted limits, hands giving the steering wheel an unsteady jerk. Hannibal's vehicle continues on with caution…that is, until the other's uncertain swerve brings them both rushing towards one another with an unfortunate speed. Hannibal's quick reaction time comes in handy, and so he can tug on the reins and try to slam the brakes, careening into the next lane over, across the centre line divider painted onto the asphalt. But, the gesture is completely futile, for the other man pulls back the same, back into his proper lane…and does not brake in the slightest. 

 

 _Bang_. That was it.

 

Like a nightmare one of many, Will slams back down to reality so suddenly that his throat constricts with a hyperventilation, eyes wide and his own forehead now sweaty and sheened. Gasping loudly in the confines of quiet space punctuated by the steady breathing of the ventilator and other medical machinery attached to a sleeping patient, Special Agent Will Graham very nearly disassociates in a momentary panic…before he realizes where he is. Hands are trembling, lashes are fluttering as though such an action can effectively clear his mind. He feels ill, sick, and shaken, like he'd been in that backseat and felt the tremors of twisting steel rip through his every nerve.

 

Quickly, the younger man sheds his winter coat and scarf to a small couch against the wall opposite the foot of the bed. Heat, a fevered sweetness, drips from his pores and makes him suddenly uncomfortable…enough so that he can't quite look back at the unconscious man laying there like a felled beast. Palm wiping at his face beneath his lenses, Will exhales a shaky laugh before even truly realizing that he's made the sound at all. Even while looking so broken and weak, frail and hurt, Hannibal still manages to be more calm and sturdy than he. Will depends on that. He holds much hope that Hannibal indeed remains this steady through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, one more step at a time…~ I was going to end this chapter at the 'Good night, Will' part as it was pretty lengthy already, but…I figured why not keep going and add in the next section since I already have it done. Hope you're all enjoying!  
> (I don't have a beta reader, so it's just me, myself and I editing these words. I apologize if there are any little typos and the like.)
> 
> If you liked it, don't forget to leave kudos and comments. They inspire me and make me smile.
> 
> Please consider [buying me a coffee for a fic](https://ko-fi.com/murakistags)!


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Will notices is the ache which has settled uncomfortably into his bones, dull and warm and just enough to wake him from a deep slumber. The shades on the hospital room windows are still closed, yet sunlight filters in through the cheap cotton and warms every surface of plastic and tile and steel that it touches. It must've warmed Will's body too, for when he sits up and swipes an open palm across his forehead, he finds a slick, sweaty mess of his skin and unruly brown curls drawn wayward.

 

Morning? _Already_? Had he really slept through the whole night like a baby…for the first time in what feels like weeks now? He might have noted the irony with which he's slept so peacefully only now that he is assure of Hannibal's own whereabouts in relation to his own, that part of his mind holding others as suspect just trying to grapple forth to the surface. However, it's the very scene which has the special agent immediately distracted to the point where his mind cannot so accurately piece together a picture of sweet dreams shared between himself and the doctor in simultaneous states of unconsciousness. Mind is immediately focused, heart rate jumping suddenly when Will stands to his feet and looks across the small space to the occupied hospital bed. His hopes were high for a brief moment, and even he isn't sure why that is. Either way, they are dashed against the rocks rather swiftly just then, cast aside like the forgotten son, ill-fated and sickly. He'd hoped, perhaps in a manner similar to most second-rate soap operas or dramas on the television, that he would awake to see Hannibal in the same state as usual, tired and worn but pulled together and himself once more. No such scene is set today, no matter how many times Will can hear and imagine the pendulum steadily swinging back and forth in space. Hannibal remains perfectly still and riddled with machines and the like, just exactly as Will remembered him before he'd fallen asleep in the man's hospital room.

 

One deep exhale later and a tight, uncomfortable swallow that Will very intensely hopes isn't the beginning of a flu, he is ruffling already-messed hair and contemplating what to do next. A glance at the watch of brown leather band and silver dial– it was a particularly lavish Christmas present from a co-worker a few years back– on his left wrist learns him of the time to only be a few minutes short of eight in the morning. Jack would undoubtedly be expecting Will back at the office in a few hours to work on the case of the latest Ripper victim, but a part of Will also knows that perhaps Jack wouldn't fault him for just taking the day off. He wonders if Jack feels quite as in an emotional limbo as he himself does in these slowly-creeping hours. No…though, that wouldn't do. Even if it's just restlessly poring over gruesome pictures of one young girl mounted ferociously atop a severed stag head for a while, at least it would be something. Something other than sitting around the hospital like a lost puppy waiting for his owner to wake up and pet his head again. Oddly, the canine-based metaphor would so perfectly match this special agent right at this very moment in time, and were Hannibal conscious to take note of it, he would most definitely also agree– with the way Will looks disgruntled with shaggy hair and sweaty skin, shuffling along in a small hunch as if he's afraid of the world touching him, he truly does seem very much like a little, wide-eyed puppy. The way he shakes his head to clear his thoughts too procures such an adorable image to mind.

 

All that aside, Will decides that leaving the hospital for now is the best route. Sitting still means wasting time, and wasting time means that his mind will not be preoccupied enough to shield him from the horrors of his own psyche which have lately evolved to try and take him over with horrific nightmares, even in broad daylight. Being so tired (or drunk) that he can barely stand, much less think straight, is the best cure for these episodes, Will has found. It's only a matter of time before Hannibal really begins to take note, and chastises him for it. (It's only a matter of time before Hannibal himself is likewise forced to take action against the encephalitis unknown to the very patient himself, the sickness threatening to set all of Will Graham's person on fire). Preoccupation aside, Will also knows that doctors and nurses will most likely be in and out of Hannibal's room all day, and the last thing he wants or needs is to be a physical obstacle, or a source of pity. Especially not the latter.

 

—•—•—•—

 

The unshielded darkness is like a comfort, especially for one who has so often worn their muscles tired and bones dry to uphold themselves in even a meager mask of light. To be able to just give in and float amidst fallen angels and demons below is so exhilarating, and it leaves the man breathless. Hannibal can feel his chest expand with a crisp and cool air, fresh and free of any taste or scent or memory. It's an air brand new, not a single molecule of which has prior touched his body, and is thus left untainted by his sulfurous flesh. It's like a scene of Van Gogh when he once painted the night sky a brilliant blue, and then fills his brush with yellow to dab across canvas and breathe life into it all. Hannibal feels reminiscent of that work, as if he himself has become the artist, but one free of turmoil of the mind and spirit. In fact, the doctor had never felt more clear and free in his entire life than he does in this moment, floating and swirling up dust, contrastingly detached from the influence of a sweet Foxglove-induced hallucination unlike the man Van Gogh himself. 

 

His mind and body are set free, and in this darkness he can reach out and feel the fringes of his own existence right at his fingertips, like frayed hems of thick burlap. For his balance in the dizzying drink of spreading his angel wings, Hannibal grips to that fabric of reality, and holds tight. He wishes to scale a woven wall built of it, and peek over the edge to seek the sights on the other side. A sunshine peeks through atop the wall, as if the ocean is just behind the interlaced stones, sullen and cold waves lit only by the rising sun, a new scene just waiting to be his own experience, to etch a brand new room into his memory palace. Had Cicero and Quintillian, so many centuries ago, been able to experience this supreme a level of detail and life in such a dreamy, hazy state? Hannibal can only wonder, but can also feel a smug wisp of self-satisfaction knowing that he himself has achieved it. The ocean waves trickle into his eardrums and lash against the walls of his glass palace so harshly, like a storm brewing. Each wave unfurling like his angel wings, they crash to the shore and threaten to seep through cracks in stone.

 

Ocean eyes, they blink and look at him, casting a strong tsunami of judgement down from the heavens, raining and wetting Hannibal's wings so that he cannot fly. A struggle against the hard pelting of life-giving water ensues, the taste on his lip a caustic brine. It threatens to wither him right up.

 

Ocean eyes, they belong to Will Graham. The lashes and lids slowly drifting closed is like a sunset, and when that infinitesimally deep gaze is shielded from him, how Hannibal yearns for it again! Like a hungry babe longing for mother's supple breast, the coils of a depraved hunger begin to claw up from his stomach. It makes him want to weep, but simultaneously cry out with joy at having ever been graced with those ocean eyes at all. William Graham, so effortlessly, opens those ocean eyes and holds an expressionless, scraggly face just beyond that wall, and still Hannibal reaches for it.

 

Lungs expand harshly under the pressure of salty wind, and though he can no longer fly, he still trudges onward. It matters not to Hannibal that his fingernails become soon dirty with his own blood and grime, dust and soil, and his muscles ache from the physical strain. Every burst of pain and despair feels that much sweeter, like the burn of a blade tucked away into his flesh as retribution for misdeeds. His every sense is overwhelmed, and the climb is perilous. One grasp at reality at a time, soaked wings hanging helplessly at his back, the doctor tilts his head backwards and parts his lips to scream to the dawn skies above him, each and every forlorn note of his cry sliding up past fat raindrops to reach the clouds above. Those ocean eyes cast an unsettled look to him, weary and sly and peeking…and suddenly, Hannibal falls. 

 

The raindrops grow colder, as sickly a frost as ice upon his naked skin. The smell of crisp beach air is replaced by a strange scent metallic but also clean and fresh, mildly chalky. Upon bleeding hands and feet, frozen wings, Hannibal experiences the throb of frostbitten chill, winding deeper into his bones until he begins to shiver. He draws in a deep breath to hopefully warm his hands, and even that action is labored and unable to be executed effectively. His throat is tight, filled with plastic, and it causes him to gag.

 

Hannibal chokes. Right on the fringes of reality, he chokes loudly, so forcefully that his stomach very nearly turns with nausea straight away, and behind closed eyelids is a hazy gaze awash with warm tears. It feels like a blessing.

 

It feels like a most painful curse.

 

"Hhrk–" 

 

The jolt of his body is as unbecoming as the noise he makes, entirety of throat and chest heaving for air when his mind finally catches up with the senses. Head tilted back into soft pillow and lips parted with dribbles of spit to soothe the ache of his dry mouth, vaguely the hospitalized man can hear the call of voices from above him. He pries his eyelids open but they feel as heavy as lead and he can barely see, nothing but an unsteady haze and blurry features, and more voices. None of those tones belong to Will Graham, he notes straightaway with a mild disdain simmering at the back of his mind. Just moments prior, was he not so very sure that he was gazing into those ocean eyes, hoping to be met with that voice of warm honey he's come to know so well? That voice that so eloquently matches Hannibal word-for-word, and spills deepest secrets and darkest fears to the psychiatrist's ears alone...? Now, he just feels devoid of comfort and nauseated. Can't all the hands leave his pained body, all the voices move forth from filling his confused mind? Can't the nurses and doctors see that he doesn't want to be bothered?

 

As if trapped in a heavy fog, Hannibal's movements are very faint and uneven, labored as his lungs now finally work to gasp in oxygen by his own unconscious thought once again, no longer aided by machine. A hand once so firmly gripping the life out of the neck of an F.B.I. trainee, now moves with much concentration and effort, and just barely enough to lightly brush his fingers against those of the doctor hovering above him. A hospital, yes. This much he can ascertain right away. And Hannibal is having none of it.

 

They say that doctors make the worst patients...and in regards to Dr. Hannibal Lecter, this saying may very well just amazingly ring true. Very, very true.

 

"I-I'm fine–"

 

A lie, oddly. He might've found it rude even for himself to so openly be discourteous to someone clearly trying to assist him, but alas. In his warped mind, Hannibal is just fine indeed. It only feels as though he's waking from a particularly heavy sleep, a rather thick wave of sedation. It's that very carefully-crafted cocktail of analgesics and mild sedatives which makes him feel this way, keeping the simmering pain of surgery and damaged limbs at bay for the time being. It makes Hannibal feel warm, a warmth unlike he's ever felt. He's never felt like this, or been in this position before. For all the pain he's dealt with in his life, his only physician was he himself. A hospital bed had never touched his back for more than brief moments of his own respite during clinical rotations in his medical school years. He was a little more reckless like that, then.

 

Blinking furiously to try and steady his vision, he realizes with a groan that each flutter of lashes leaves a painful throb at his temples. That doesn't stop him from trying to object further, mind you.

 

"What's...happened?"

 

Voice rough and ashy as charcoal sounds extremely foreign to his own ears. Is he still dreaming, perhaps? No, but Hannibal knows himself to never have such a vividly active imagination when it comes to sleep at night. He is by all accounts a very light sleeper, which meant that he could sleep just enough to rest his mind and body, and yet just _not_ enough to allow him wild dreams. So then, what were those ocean eyes doing in his subconscious?

 

_"Mr. Lecter..?"_

 

 _Mister_? It's been a while since anybody called the man anything but _doctor_ , or even just by his first name. If he'd been more lucid in that moment, he might've perhaps made some joking quip that " _Mister_ Lecter is my father." Something like that. He thinks it, but cannot say it. Every sense is dull and slow to catch up with the rest of them. In fact, he doesn't even realize that stray tears from choking on the endotracheal tube have overflowed and slid down his bruised cheeks and down into the hair unruly by his ears. Dully, he can see an image of blue scrubs and white coat surrounding him, and can hear the bustle in but a whisper, smell the scents of which he is very familiar. But every breath now is a struggle, and though he is being called again and again, he simply cannot find the energy to answer. That one hand that had stretched upwards now sits limply against the bed, the line of tape and gauze holding needle in place atop the back of his hand now looking sickly. A turn of his neck is only slight compared to the tiring amount of willpower taken to produce the movement, and he finds it futile and worthless at the moment.

 

It seems that all he has is his mind, for now. His body had betrayed him so horribly. Still, that mind is not crystal clear and sharp as before, not even close. The psychiatrist knows that he is in the hospital, and he can remember bits and pieces of sharp light from the crash...but nothing else comes to mind. He can recite his name, date of birth, can sift through patient after patient ingrained in his memory again, but all that shines through is that pair of ocean eyes. No matter how much he wishes his body to comply and be strong once again, Hannibal lays there in an ambiguous state of light sedation, wondering if that accident is really the reason he is here. He wonders why those ocean eyes stare at him from above so sharply. So _angrily_. Can't those eyes see that Hannibal must latch onto them and hope to be seen in full? That those ocean waves, as tumultuous as they may be, are what create his sense of fortitude...?

 

He wishes to say the name on the tip of his tongue, and his lips very nearly make out the impression to do so. But once more, Hannibal's body fails in a manner most pitiful, and sleep threatens to drag him under the violent waves again. This time those ocean eyes have ripped the wings right out from his back, leaving flesh tender and bloody and broken.

 

The name resounds only in his mind. _Will_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a trippy dream sequence. I'm still trying to figure out what part of MY subconscious mind the idea of this all even came from. I'm still unsure of which direction this work will take but... I guess we'll have to see. My fingers sometimes type faster than my mind can process, I swear it.
> 
> If you liked it, don't forget to leave kudos and comments. They inspire me and make me smile.
> 
> Please consider [buying me a coffee for a fic](https://ko-fi.com/murakistags)!


	4. Chapter 4

Will barely has a chance to walk into the office of Agent Jack Crawford before he feels the skin at the back of his neck prickle. The gaze he's met with is one curious as he is, defunct and tired and worn, and...not at all pleased to see his own colleague here so late. 

 

"Did you come from the hospital?"

 

 "Yeah," Will breathes, feeling as horrible as he must look to Jack. "And with no good news, either."

 

 A cup of coffee or two had woken up his mind entirely, sent his fingertips even slightly swaying with resting tremor, but had done vaguely little to help his appearance. If anything, it's made him worse. A man looking scraggly and unkempt by lack of solid sleep is now a man looking scraggly and unkempt by lack of solid sleep _and is trembling like a madman_. Not a good image for Will Graham. Not a great reassurance for Jack Crawford. Yet there they are together in the office of the head of the B.A.U., about to push the weight of their minds away and instead focus on a mind-numbing task in the meanwhile.

 

Jack doesn't seem to want to talk any more about the psychiatrist laying dormant in the hospital at this moment, who they aren't even sure will wake. Instead, he looks almost grateful when the empath speaks up first, and begins to sink into one of the two chairs before Jack's desk, as if rearing for a long and tiring discussion already. Some cases are just like that. He could do with one for now.

 

"So. What've you got for me, Jack?"

 

That line, again. It's become something so routine, something so commonplace that Will finds it surprising that he himself hasn't said it many a time more than he is aware. Or perhaps he had. It's a phrase both sardonic and tired, and yet an attempt at being genuinely helpful. It's an odd combination built on reluctance and underlying fear.

 

 

_It's the price of his imagination_. Isn't that exactly what Alana had told Jack once?

 

And speak of the devil.

 

  
_Better the devil you know_.

 

"Jack--"

 

Clearly it must have been something urgent, for Dr. Alana Bloom suddenly in the doorway of the office didn't even knock. Instead she's holding open the glass door with one hand, her cellphone firmly in the palm of her other, loose and hanging at her side. Those blue eyes look surprised to see a second man within the space, but she isn't displeased. If anything else, it reminds her to slow down, and so as both Jack and Will turn their heads in surprise to meet her, she can take a breath.

 

A deep breath. One of relief, and not at all of panic. She bears good news.

 

"Oh-- Will. I didn't know that you were here. Did you just get in?"

 

She remains hovering in the doorway, door propped open only for a minute more before she decides against it. On her red-pump-clad feet, slender legs beneath a wrap print skirt and slinky blouse to match, the female strays into the office with ease, head held high and face bearing an expression that is always soft, but equally as hard to read. A brilliant woman, a brilliant psychiatrist...and partially by the help of Dr. Hannibal Lecter himself in her internship days. It's no wonder she's a force to be reckoned with. She might have stopped to apologize and even might have thought twice about just barging into the office with little to no warning at all, but this time she commands attention. As most times, she commands attention in a way that is most respectful and kind. How can Jack ever be angry at her for that? He respects her too much to yell at her, and this is why Alana Bloom becomes the most perfect buffer of all in these halls of behavioral science.

 

"Yeah, just got in. A late start, I know."

 

Will is about to form a casual conversation...more admittedly awkward than casual as he's trapped between Jack sitting behind that desk and Alana half-behind him in the carpeted room. That is, until Alana closes the distance and hovers behind the empty guest chair right beside where Will sits. His blue gaze follows the movement of her shoes on the floor, her hands as they rest upon the plush back of the chair and hold her mobile phone there, how perfectly manicured and plain those nails are. But he never looks at her face. Rather, he soaks in the conversation to come, quietly as Jack finally interrupts and gets right to the point. Always right to the point with this man, isn't it?

 

"Did you need something, Dr. Bloom?"

 

Only then does Alana's mildly harried expression turn to a small smile. The expression is faint, but still there nevertheless.

 

"The hospital called. Hannibal woke up," she announces softly, looking evenly between the two men.

 

The tension in the room almost tangibly fades away, and it's obvious how both Jack and Will's shoulders sink down right where they sit, the relief exponential. Alana can see it, and she understands it, for that was the very same feeling she felt while sitting at her desk and receiving the phone call.

 

To Will's ears, it sounds like an angelic voice from the heaven's...if he at all really believed in those sort of things. To his body, well, he finds the words mildly annoying and tiring. Didn't Will just _leave_ the hospital? What rotten timing on his part.

 

"How is he?" Both Jack and Will enunciate at the same exact time, leaving a mild echo in the office air. That draws out a chuckle from Alana, the sound as light as a spring breeze. The air feels so warm and smooth now, like the fog has lifted and winter has finally faded away. Even Will's lips fight the tiniest of smiles, hopefulness.

 

"...Stable. Pretty beaten up still, but stable. He's breathing on his own, in a lot of pain, but conscious enough to tell the doctor to call me...or Will."

 

Without a word, Will blinks and looks down to his lap. With the slightest shift of fabrics as Alana goes on, he tunes out her voice and fishes out his cell phone from the depths of his forest-green slack pockets. A press of the home button and he can see the backlit screen, and with a surprise too.

 

Two missed calls. Both from the hospital.

 

And _just_ after he'd left, too?

 

Horrible luck about to get worse, isn't it?

 

And yet there's a silent little twinge of warmth in his lower chest and upper belly. Because such an early phone call no doubt means that he was the first one the hospital had tried to contact after Hannibal had awoken. It must be.

 

...Did Hannibal _ask_ for him?

 

 

 

—•—•—•—

 

 

 

"Will? ...Correct?"

 

The way he asks it in that accented voice sends a shiver right down Will Graham's spine. It isn't the nature of the reply, never mind the ambiguous meaning of the syntax. What makes the two words so horrific above all is that there is little recognition in it. Where his name once held depth and served as an anchor to him, they now seem empty and glassy, dull and broken and...unstable.

 

No, no. Will might be sometimes unstable, but Hannibal Lecter is not. For Will, Hannibal is the stable one, the source of stability and the epitome of it. His mind is always as keen as the pressed lapels of suit jacket, the severe hem of waistcoat, the neat designs of his tie and the hand-sewn edge of his expensive leather shoes. Hannibal Lecter did not speak with _uncertainty_. 

 

This voice is hardly his own.

 

It's enough to wipe any semblance of smile right off Will's face, replace it with a frown, and leave his mind a blurring mess of reality he can barely process.

 

_Correct?_

 

That _inflection_.

 

Does Hannibal not _know_?

 

"Will?"

 

There it is again. Instead of the tone being firm and pulling, it is instead weak and grasping, like that of a child seeking assurance from their parents when a situation has gone completely awry. Indeed this situation has gone awry now and here, for Will suddenly feels very sick. Those maroon-flecked eyes are filled with recognition, but why are those words so empty?

 

Hannibal cannot forget.

 

He _cannot_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been some time since I last updated, I know! I've been swamped with other responsibilities and the like, and this unfinished chapter was sitting too long in my drafts that I just couldn't take it any longer. I had to sit down and churn it out, push through it and get it out here... until I can really get down the nitty-gritty of the next one. This chapter was a little short, but hopefully satisfying for now. I'll try to update again in a timely manner. Thank you for reading! (And please excuse any typos-- this is not beta'd.)
> 
> If you liked it, don't forget to leave kudos and comments. They inspire me and make me smile.
> 
> Please consider [buying me a coffee for a fic](https://ko-fi.com/murakistags)!


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